


Written

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 06:05:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes, and letters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Written

Elsie sighs, rummages about on the sideboard, picks things up, puts them down. It's their half-day, and she's all odds and ends. She doesn't want to read, and started and stopped a letter to her sister three times. It's a dull day and she's almost considering finding some work to do when he comes out of his office, belting his overcoat.

"I'm going into the village for a bit."

She tilts her head, considers him thoughtfully. "Maybe I'll go with you, if you're not adverse to some company. I'm tired of looking at this house."

Carson looks at her, clears his throat. "Not adverse no, but I am going to the gentlemen's outfitters." He knows things are different now; women go into tailoring shops, men visit milliners, but it's usually for gift shopping between the sexes, or a husband or a wife picking up orders for the other. He's hesitant.

Elsie smiles and goes to fetch her coat and handbag. "I'll try not to scandalize the house, then."

They walk along companionably in the cool air of first spring and she breathes in deeply, lets it out. All of this crisp, delicate green around them and it's so good to be outside, so good to breathe; all of the trees are showing first buddings and there are speckles of life everywhere one looks. The birds are back, the grass is tender and new.

She's smiling and Carson thinks it's nice to have her along, sweet, and he takes her arm gently in his. Makes no comment about it, just nestles her hand there and walks; they talk easily of the coming spring, of the season that will begin in a month or two.

"Are you looking forward to it, Mr. Carson?" She glances up at him, tries to read his face. She can never tell if he likes the London season or hates it; she knows that he comes back tired every year, seemingly relieved that it's over and done with. He always seems glad to get back to Downton. Elsie had thought briefly once that she was envious of his yearly trips into the city.

"I'm looking forward to it being over if you want the truth, Mrs. Hughes. I must be getting old." He laughs, self-conscious, troubled by it all. His desire to avoid the season has grown with every passing year, and every year it's as fruitless as ever. He's not sure what he expects, really, or what he hopes. It's as inevitable as the spring itself, there's no use wishing that it doesn't come.

Still, he wishes.

"What are we — well, you — getting at the outfitters?"

The heavy brows lift, drop. "A new suit for off-times. This one is getting a bit tired and I've put it off for long enough. I might take in a show or two in London, so best to be prepared."

Elsie feels a strange nervousness, a discomfort. She lapses into silence as they draw near to the main street. Something doesn't sit right with her about the idea of him at the theatre, in a new suit, well-dressed and sharp. Something nags at her, makes a tiny twisting cut on her heart. She steals a sideways glance, tightens her hand on his arm a little.

He won't lack for company, if he wants it, to see a show, to have a nice dinner out. Her lips tighten and she forces herself to speak naturally, normally; her voice is pitched just a shade higher than normal. "Will you write?"

Carson looks down at her. Of course he'll write; what does he do with his spare time except write to her? How many letters have gone between the city residence and Downton in all the years they've known one another? Hundreds of them, sealed with his flawless wax stamp, addressed in his slanting hand, folded perfectly and crisply and affixed with perfect postage. "Don't I always?"

She worries her lip with her teeth. He does, and she asks the same question every year, and the answer is the same each time. He does write, long, detailed letters about the parties, the teas, the visits. She answers them all faithfully, though she never has anything interesting to report. The maids are cleaning this wing of the house, that one. She hasn't let the plants in his pantry die. Mrs. Patmore made a particularly good blackberry crumble for pudding. Despite her lack of actual news, her letters are freer, more humorous, more about people than events. She encloses the funny cards from her chocolate packets sometimes, fliers from the village about some particularly outrageous happening that he'd be all in a roar about were he there. How many now? Hundreds. "You do, of course you do."

He knows exactly how many she has sent.

She knows precisely to the number how many he has written.

They are all saved, hidden, carefully stacked and tied, in his nightstand.

They are organized by date, tidy and bundled, in her bottom drawer.

They rest there, those letters, those envelopes, those ink-stained words, reaching for something. Reaching out. Trying to transcend all of that dryness, trying to be more than black and white, trying to kindle into some kind of quiet flame.

Trying hard to be more than what they're only supposed to be.

Carson looks away, feigns interest in something down the street. He doesn't want to go this year, not at all.

She swallows, squints up at the sky. She wishes he could stay this time, three months is so long.

In her dresser, in his table, there is more space still. It seems to grow; no matter how full the slots get, no matter how tight the ribbon has to be pulled, it always seems there's room for another envelope, another piece of stationary. There's always just enough room for more silent  _I miss yous_  and unspoken  _come back soons_  and between every mundane line the whispered painful  _I need yous_.

 


End file.
